Tales in the Tattered
by vintagecowgirl101
Summary: Mable is a stubborn young seamstress, bound by the disappointments of poverty. When a fiery haired soldier pays her a visit, he is able to sew together the broken strings of her heart. Oneshot- Malarkey/OC


**This is based off of how I imagine my Great-Grandmother… I've used her maiden name.**

**Just a simple oneshot-**

**I hope you enjoy, and if you do (or don't)- let me know!**

I drew the ragged wool blanket closer to my shivering chin. Each fiber smelled off mothballs, and the heat my body emitted only made the stench worse. Cracking open one eye, I didn't even have to guess that it would be rainy out. The frayed ends of the faded floral curtains waved with each wave of freezing breeze. Small puddles formed on the window sill, as they had smuggled their way in through the broken glass.

Hesitantly, I swung back my fisted hand that grasped the blanket. The cold of the room bitterly met with the bare skin of my legs. Unbending my legs trapped in the fetal position, my knees snapped with protest. There were no slippers pleasantly waiting for me on the floor. Catching sight of my lackluster house coat, I was forced to walk on the icy floor. Hurriedly, I wrapped the thin material around my shoulders. My trembling fingers swam around to find the small gold ring I refused to sleep with. I instead found a large hole in the bottom, the broken threads taunting me. I had been so busy with repairing soldier's uniforms; I had no time to do sewing for myself.

My dark hair haphazardly hung around my gentle features, my green eyes showing through the curls. I got down on my hands and knees, searching desperately for the ring. It was the only thing I treasured in this bitter life. The coldness of my 'house' only left me frustrated, the soldiers always coaxed me into paying less than the proper price. It clearly was not the proper way to make a living, but I secretly loved what I did.

With no success, I stood up, my joints scolding me again. Poverty had given me the body of an old woman. Unable to afford a sewing machine, I was forced to use my fingers to thread the green string through the thick fabric. My joints were always swollen; the tips of my thumbs and index fingers always had small bubbles of blood on them. My thimble too, had escaped my useless pocket. When would I learn?

Splitters poked their way through my house coat as I gathered up a small amount of kindling. The day was starting, whether I liked it or not. The heavy cast iron black door deafeningly opened, leaving dark stains on my pale fingers. Sighing, I tossed the small logs into the dark and lifeless hole. Striking the red tipped match across the rough surface of the brick hearth, the flame came to life. I held it up to my small turned up nose, absorbing the little warmth it gave off. The glowing flame traveling down the wood threatened to burn my skin.

Satisfied, I slapped my palms together to rid the sweet smelling sap from my complaining skin. Shuffling to the rickety kitchen table, I sat a ceramic mug with 'Keep Calm and Carry On' slapped across the side. Setting the worn kettle of water atop my stove, I let out a sigh of disapproval. Every day was the same.

A rowdy soldier would beg me for my love; I would calmly sew his uniform as I watched him pull the same pleading with another girl. I would roll my eyes as he tried once again as I held out my hand for the small amount of coins I worked for. Coaxing me with his compliments, I would stupidly allow it, and then later scold myself. I would then go to sleep in my utterly uncomfortable cot, dreaming of a better life. Every day was the same for me.

Yanking me from my repeated daydream was the screeching of steam shooting out from the boiling pot of tea. I had done it to myself again; day dreamt rather than get properly dressed. I horridly pulled the pot from the burning surface, pattering to my 'room'. It wasn't much of a bedroom, as it was simple an area squared off by sheets. I had always wanted children. I so loved raising my five brothers, I figured motherhood would fit me perfectly. Sighing as I slipped on my best dress, I knew I would never be able to provide for my beautiful babes. Maybe, I prayed, when the war is over they're be brighter times.

My cat eyes flashed wide, hearing the abrupt knocks at my front door. Cinching up the thin white belt around my poverty worn waist, I scurried to the door. In these frightening times, I have multiple locks lining my door. Twisting the golden deadbolts, all that was left was chain bounding wall to door.

The stranger wringed his cap shyly, "Is this the seamstress's place?"

"Yes," I cleared my croaky morning voice. "It is, sir." My eyes warned him as they glanced over the chain. Slamming the door, I slid free the binding chain.

Opening the door, I revealed his shocked face, "Please, come in, sir." I said sweetly to him, gesturing for him to enter my shambles.

He ran his hand through his red hair, looking around my sorry excuse for a home. I felt my cheeks burn at the unusual feeling growing in my heart. His fiery hair had somehow set fire to my affections. Something told me his was different from the other lustful soldiers.

"May I ask what your name is, sir?"

He cleared his throat, "Malarkey… actually Sergeant Malarkey. I just got promoted. But you can call me Don, miss." I saw his eyes dart quickly to my left hand to check for a wedding band.

"Oh, congratulations on the promotion, Don," I tried desperately to keep my voice smooth and level.

His lips curved, "Please pardon my poor manners. What is your name?"

My face was surely beet red now, "Noble. Mabel Noble."

"That is a beautiful name, Mable. Very _noble _indeed," I chuckled at his witty remark. Sticking multiple hairpins into my thick hair, I strolled over to the stove.

"I've just set on some water… would you like some tea, Don?" I liked how easily his name rolled off my tongue.

He shifted uneasily in place, tightening his grip on the brown parcel cradled in his arms, "Yes, please. Its so damn- er, I mean terribly cold outside. I don't know why I complaining though, I hear Ireland isn't much different." I swallowed down a giggle as he fumbled with his words.

"Oh, you're Irish?" I questioned, pouring the steaming tea into a fresh mug. The teabag slipped from the top, plopping noisily into his tea. "Drat…" I mumbled frustrated to myself, scalding tea drops meeting with my clean dress.

"Yes, ma'am," I noticed his face glow pink as I walked over to him with the steaming beverage in hand.

"Careful now, it's hot," I warned, my motherly side emerging. Malarkey smiled kindly up at me, holding his shivering hand over the mouth of the cup.

"Though I'd love to sit and visit, I came to have my uniform pressed and mended."

"Yes, of course," I embarrassedly bustled over to him, scolding myself for actually believing somebody wanted to talk to me. I slid my fingers under the white string binding his clothes, lifting the tan set.

"Are you a Paratrooper, Don?" I questioned with disappointment thick in my feminine British accented voice.

"Yup, 101st…" he sheepishly gestured to the bold Screaming Eagle patch on the lifeless left shoulder.

I took another hearty gulp from my tea, holding the heat in my stomach. I then gathered up the proper and matching thread, needles and pins. I sat the dense pressing iron on my faithful stove, sighing with the monotonous task ahead of me. Sitting down and beginning to mindlessly work, I glanced up. Donald was still standing there awkwardly, taking small hesitant sips from the dark liquid.

"Don?" I quietly asked, pressing my lips together to hide my smirk.

His head rapidly whipped to face me, his pupils huge, "Huh?"

"Sergeant, you don't have to stay. This will take me all morning… I'll see you around lunchtime," I smiled sweetly at his innocence. That's what I fancied about him, the sweet innocence he possessed.

"Oh yea," he ran his hand behind his neck. "I'll see ya around, Mabel." Don sheepishly sat the mug on nearest surface and scurried out the door. He stood dazed on the crumbling sidewalk, then stumbled to the over side. Once I saw his out of earshot, I began laughing quietly to myself. Though his actions were peculiar, they made my day slightly better.

I wove the olive thread through the thick fabric, humming hymns to myself. I adored music, but I was too poor to afford a 78rpm player. So, I was forced to improvise, much like many other things I have to do without. At first I would sing quietly, reserving my timid voice for only myself. As I continued to sew, I would get lost in my own world. At this point, I was belting out my favorite tunes. Looking up from my progress and stretching out the painful cramp developing in my back, I was able to peer outside.

The English country side was being cooperative, the rare sun shining brightly through the plush white clouds. The shy Irish Sergeant's visit had defiantly changed my day for the better. Taking my eyes from the paradise that lay just outside my walls, I focused back on my job. Malarkey's uniform had many stories woven between each stitch. His chevrons frayed, telling me he hadn't been disciplined in quite a while. Grass stains were thickly dotted across his knee patches, and I made a point to tease him later. Droplets of blood was scattered around the cuffs of his sleeves, informing me of his loyal assistance to his fallen comrade. Guiltily I felt a smile dance upon my lips… he was a good man.

Holding his mended uniform before me, I sighed with satisfaction. Though he didn't ask for a washing, I would launder his uniform free of charge. For the oddest reason, I felt it was the right thing to do. My joints snapped and scolded me as I happily stood to go to the wash bin. I poured the remaining boiling water into the cream colored basin. I lathered the sour smelling lye into my palm, and began vigorously scrubbing it into the stubborn grass and blood stains. With a sore arm and throbbing hands, the stains had finally lifted. Sweat was beading on my forehead and as I wiped it away, I pulled my Papa's tarnished pocket watch from my apron pocket.

"Goodness… Don'll be here soon," I murmured to myself, licking my index finger. Quick as the wink of a cat, I dared touch the iron. As my saliva sizzled I knew it was plenty hot. Steam arose up and into my face, smelling strongly of starch. I laid his uniform across my wobbly ironing board, making perfect creases in the pant legs. For some ridiculous reason, I wanted Don Malarkey to be the handsomest man in the Company.

With my hands on my hips, I admired the striking outcome of my hard work. My happiness was short lived as my stomach scolded me with its deep growling of disapproval. I hadn't had the time to eat anything for breakfast, and the tea was not sitting well with me. Scrounging through the splintery cabinets, I managed to find some day-old bread. In the icebox I pleasantly discovered leftover slices of cheese and salami.

Maybe, if I was lucky, Don would stay and have lunch with me. The once pleasant thought felt impossible when I looked down at the sorry excuses for sandwiches. My meager rations were enough for the small woman I am, but a drop in the hunger bucket for a strong man. I was disappointed again for what I had to offer… or lack thereof.

A sudden fist collided with my door as I was slathering on some mayonnaise. Following my routine, I unlocked all of the protection that lined my walls. Peering over the chain, I found it to be Don. My heart pounded as I took in the sight of him standing in the glorious sunshine. As far as men go, Malarkey was rather beautiful.

"Right on time," I smiled, tapping my pocket watch. "Please, come in." I swung open the broad door, and he ducked under the low entryway. "I've, uh, just made some lunch. If you are able to stay, I made one extra… a sandwich that is.

He sat his helmet on my makeshift hat tree, "I'd enjoy your company, Mabel. Of course that is, if you'll alright with me staying."

I swallowed down the girlish excitement eating away at me, "I'd enjoy yours… it gets so lonely here. Sewing all day," I threw my hands at my side. "It does get to be rather lonesome work."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he kindly pulled out one of _my _chairs for me. Luckily I had earlier sat my chipped china plates on the table, with our makeshift sandwiches. Quietly we chewed in awkward silence. I shifted in my seat uneasily, scolding myself for thinking this would end well.

"Donald Malarkey… I have a bone to pick with _you_," I playfully pointed a nervous finger shadowed by false confidence.

"And what is that?" He asked with a smirk on his freckled face.

I politely swallowed down a bite of the dry bread, "Were you trying to get my arms to fall off with those grass stains? I say, what do you American's do in this war… go on joy rides?"

He began chuckling heartily, by finally managed some words, "Actually… yes! I have been!"

I was now giggling uncontrollably, "Looks like it didn't end up well?"

"No it did not, nearly hit a truck head on… Jesus those were some good times," Don was beaming from ear-to-ear. "So, Mabel… tell me about yourself."

My eyes grew wide, shocked by his question, "Oh, well… I live a very boring life. My father was honorably killed in the Great War." I felt a stone grow in my throat, why did he have to ask? "And… erm, my mother was killed while giving birth to me. All four of my brothers have been killed in this war, and all I have left is my bitter hermit of an older brother. I sew uniforms for rowdy and disrespectful soldiers… like I said; I don't live a glamorous life."

Swallowing hard, I harshly yelled at myself for being so open. Donald surely didn't want to hear all about my dreadful life. "I'm so sorry, Mabel… really I am."

I felt his warm and sorrowful eyes on me, so I was forced to look up, "Please, tell me about your past."

He cleared his throat and began fiddling with his fingers, "I was born in Astoria, Oregon. My father was a great football player; my mother was a sweetheart… I miss them both dearly. Both of my uncle's were killed in the Great War as well, I feel your pain, Mabel. Anyway, I have two brothers and one sister. I too live a boring life, Mabel… only it is filled with war."

I looked up from the bread crumbs on the wholly tablecloth, "I'm so sorry, Don. Seems as though war binds us all… for better or for worse." I mustered a weak smile up to him, "I'll take your plate."

He pushed back the chair with the back of his knees as I gently placed our plates in the washbasin. "With much effort, I got the stains out of your uniform, Sergeant. It's over there, wrapped up."

I heard his boots clomp against my floorboards as I looked into the suds that coated my fair skin. "Oh great! You got the bastards out… thanks, Mabel," he chuckled, lifting the parcel in his arms. I heard coins jingling together as he fished for the cost of my doings. "How much does it add up to?"

I ran the towel over my calloused hands, "Two shillings…" He held out a handful of coins, clueless as to how much they added up to. Knowingly, I took the proper amount.

"Two coins? Really? It must be more than that, you're just being easy on me, Mabel," he gently scolded. I felt my face burn.

I folded his fingers over his palm in protest, "Really, that's how much I work for." I was growing uneasy inside, knowing he would leave soon. I would never see the handsome American again, and that broke my heart further into despair.

He shifted his weight, "Mabel? Will you do me a favor?"

I tore my fixed eyes from the floor, my cheeks still pink with my shyness, "Of course, what is it?" I tried to keep my voice level as the excitement grew inside me.

"Promise you'll write to me? I know it's a lot to ask… but I really need a girl as special as you to keep me going…" Malarkey's face turned the same red as his hair.

I looked up at him through my eyelashes, "You couldn't keep me from writing you… if you tried, Sergeant."

"I told you… call me 'Don'," I felt him squeeze my free hand with his, and my heart fluttered. "We are moving out soon, Mabel." He nervously looked out my shattered window.

There was a sense of urgency in my voice, "Goodbye, and look for my letters, _Don_." I put extra emphasize on his name, making his thin pink lips curve. He squeezed my hand once more, and backed up; turning the tarnished doorknob. He held the brown parcel tighter to his chest, and waved to me as he crossed the bustling street. Men threw their heavy looking rucksacks into the backs of loud, rumbling trucks. Though Donald disappeared into the sea of soldiers, I blew him a kiss anyway. Malarkey had made this 'boring' life of mine, not so boring and lovelier than I could have dreamt.

**That was pretty fun to write, a nice change!**

**Let me know what you thought of this, please! Thank you so much for taking the time to read!**


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